Dissonance
by madame.alexandra
Summary: A little piece of fanfiction in which there is fighting, and another 'F' word. Jibbs/Smut. Song-themed, but not technically a songfic. One-shot.


_A/N: __This is unapologetic, plot-less smut. It's laughably unoriginal. Set to Alanis Morissette's "Straightjacket". Lyrics included at the end. _

_You know, to spice up your weekend._

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><p>Honest to God, she was ready to tear her hair out.<p>

She held her hands up near her head tensely, making a motion as if she were shaking him violently, her mouth set in a hard, frustrated scowl—and her penciled, expressive eyebrows rigid and frozen, framing dark and stormy emerald eyes.

The redhead made a noise of feral discontent as she swiftly picked through what he'd just said, attempting to figure out if he had seriously _just_ insinuated that she was the manipulated plaything of the Secretary of the Navy, and had no authority over him _or_ his team.

Jennifer Shepard was struck speechless in outrage for a moment at the brunt of his words, her cheeks flushing under the mocking look in his blue eyes that goaded her—that suggested he felt he was looking at his little Probie from Paris.

She yanked her hands to her hips, gripping her own sides tightly.

"Have you _lost_ your _mind_?" she demanded.

He stared at her stonily, in an odd concrete, callously amused way. He _shrugged_.

She was losing track of how long she had been sparring with him. She knew he had blatantly disobeyed her and flouted her orders, but she was finding it difficult to prove it—and he wouldn't admit to it.

For someone who hadn't studied political science in college—who hadn't even _attended_ college—Leroy Jethro Gibbs was infuriatingly skilled at circumlocution.

"You made a complete fool out of me, Jethro!" she snarled, nearly shaking with anger. "Do you have _any_ idea how mortifying it was to face the Director of the FBI and explain _that_?"

"I misunderstood your order, Jen," he said brazenly.

"The _hell_ you _misunderstood_," she shouted. "I specifically told you to wait—this is a political fiasco!"

He rolled his eyes.

"I don't give a damn about the politics. We got the bastard!" he retorted bluntly.

She reached up and pushed her hair back, grabbing a handful.

"You undermined my authority!" she growled. "Do you have any idea how that makes me—how that makes this agency look? Incompetent," she threw out her hand, grabbing fingers one-by-one as she listed adjectives. "Fragmented! Unorganized! Foolhardy!"

"Give it a rest, Jen," he interrupted loudly. "Not my problem."

"It isn't your problem?"

"How we '_look'_ is your problem," Gibbs retorted mockingly. "Who we _catch_ is mine."

"You cannot ignore my superiority—"

"It isn't my fault you can't control your agents."

"No!" shouted Jenny, drawing her hand across her neck in a violent, final motion. "That is enough, Jethro," she said aggressively, her eyes flashing. "This is _not_ Paris. You are_ not_ in the advantageous position any longer. You defer to _me_. You can shout, and smirk, and you can _think_ I am out to get you and you can _think_ I am a bitch but when we disagree, _you_ back down," she paused, took a deep breath, and bared her teeth, taking in a deep breath.

"The roles are reversed," she reiterated. "This time around, _you_ get the sour pleasure of bowing to _me_, even if you think I'm an idiot. I am your _boss_, Jethro. I don't know _who_ you're talking to with such _fucking_ disrespect."

He opened his mouth to retort, suddenly furious, and she shot him a murderous look, thrusting her hand towards the door.

"Get out of my office, Agent Gibbs," she ordered icily. "This conversation is over until you can behave like a grown man."

He took a few steps toward her, looked as if he would throw her back against her desk for a moment, and then turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door nearly off its hinges in his progress.

Jenny darted across the room, outraged by the treatment. She opened the door, saw him pacing tensely in front of Cynthia's desk, and bit her lip, slamming it again—shutting herself in her office.

She leaned against it for a moment and covered her mouth, biting back a scream.

She stalked over to her desk and sat down on the edge of it, facing her conference table stonily, her legs stretched out in front of her, gripping the edge of the wood tightly. She dug her nails into the finish, grinding her teeth together.

Talking to him was like talking to a sieve; her words just passed right through him. He ignored her, blocked her out, threw out sarcastic, stubborn responses, and found the most ridiculous loopholes to explain his borderline unethical investigative tactics.

She could kill him.

He had this stunted, glamorized perception of her that was a remnant of a tumultuous Parisian relationship. He thought she was passionate, quick-tempered, emotional—it didn't occur to him that there was more to her than the woman he'd slept with back in the day.

He made assumptions about her that were maddeningly incorrect, and yet he knew her insufferably well.

He had the power to piss her off like no one could—and yet one late night, smoldering look could remind her of the unbelievable electricity their prior relationship had once harbored and she couldn't breathe for wanting him.

Jenny lowered her head to her palm, rubbing her temples, trying to steady her erratic, angered breathing. Her hand shook. She blinked heavily, gritting her teeth again. She was utterly convinced Jethro's sole purpose in life was to sink his teeth into her psyche until he landed her in an asylum.

Her office door flew open again and her head shot up, her eyes narrowing immediately.

He pushed the door closed behind him and strolled over to her arrogantly, letting his gaze roam up her outstretched legs. Her brows knit together and she set her jaw; her shoulders snapped back stiffly and she glared at him.

"Have you learned to act like a mature adult?" she fired off acidly.

"You seem pretty frustrated, Jenny," he growled back.

"For the love of _God_," she hissed. "Is it your mission in life to cause dissonance at this agency?" she demanded.

He approached her slowly, tilting his head.

"_Dissonance_?" he scoffed, repeating the word.

"It's a big word; use context clues," she sneered nastily, turning up her nose. He stood right in front of her and she looked up at him, unfazed. Her eyes hardened to emerald steel and she parted her lips slightly. "It's the end of an era, Jethro," she growled. "There's been a regime change. You don't have free reign around here."

"That's what you keep tellin' me, _your majesty,_" he snapped back huskily, leaning one arm on the desk next to hers.

He glared at her.

She glared back, gritting her teeth beneath barely parted lips. She breathed out, furiously attempting to interpret the meaning of his proximity.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Waiting," he answered.

She closed her lips and arched a brow.

"For what?" she asked sarcastically, her voice lowering, the words leaving her lips breathily and in a deadly, patronizing manner.

Gibbs smirked wickedly.

"For you to break."

His eyes bore into hers, unmoving, unblinking. She swallowed, swearing vehemently in the back of her mind. He had only barged back in here because something in her body language must have given her away, something that said she was twice as livid as she should have been because she hadn't—

He shifted his hand slightly and touched hers.

-been touched in months.

And he knew_ just_ how to touch her.

She wrapped her hand around his wrist and shifted, reaching out to slip her hand onto his neck. In a dizzying flash of colour and skin, she had his mouth pressed against hers in a confident, desperate, breathless kiss that tasted like frustration and lust and the intangible, infuriating essence that was Jethro.

The next thing she knew, he had pushed her back onto her desk and had her leg trapped between his. She bit his lower lip and then gasped, throwing her head back. He slid his hand up her thigh and grasped the lacy, adhesive edge of her stockings and yanked it downwards.

She closed her eyes and moaned, her hand gripping the hair at the nape of his neck as he leaned over her and attacked her throat with his lips, his body pressing so hot and hard against hers that she wondered if it was even necessary to have him inside her.

He stepped back and slipped her panties off, earning a glare and a gasp of weak protest from her.

"Not in my office," she scolded, her hands pressing roughly into his chest.

"You want to _wait_?" he scoffed, pushing back against her hands. Her strength was no match for his, and her arms were bent between them, her knees bent around his hips, her skirt bunched high on her thighs between them.

"I am a professional," she hissed.

He lowered his lips to her ear, closing his mouth over the lobe, trailing wet, rough kisses down her jaw until he met her lips and growled, possessive against her mouth:

"So was Clinton."

She moaned, tilting her head back again, and he moved his hand around to her lower back, slipping his hand into the back of her skirt. She reached between them, her eyes half-closed, and unfastening his belt and unzipping him.

He pulled her towards him and then pushed her hand away, nullifying her attempts at foreplay for him and burying himself inside her roughly. She gasped and arched her back, widening her eyes.

He froze for a moment, lowering his mouth to her shoulder. His hands shook as he gripped her hips, as he savored for a moment the way it felt to be this intoxicatingly close to Jenny.

She grasped his neck with both hands and tilted his head towards her, kissing him wantonly, her tongue mimicking what she wanted to feel. She forgot how to breathe, but as long as he kept thrusting like this, kept holding her hips where he wanted them, as long as she could feel the muscles in his arms and abdomen flex against her, breathing didn't matter.

Sanity didn't matter.

She drew her mouth a fraction of an inch away and bit her lip, muted, breathy moans escaping her lips. He let go of her hip and braced his hand on the desk behind her; she leaned forward and bit his shoulder, her teeth piercing his shirt, and she reached for the leg she had wrapped around his waist, digging her nail into her own thigh.

He pressed his forehead into hers, knocking over her tin of pencils as he drove into her a final time. His palm slipped and he nearly collapsed on top of her—but she dropped her leg down from his waist and held her own, gently holding him back.

Breathing harshly, he lifted his head, looking at her.

She licked her lips, her pupils dilated and her cheeks flushed; he didn't have to ask if she'd come.

"Clinton had _oral_ sex in his office," she said hoarsely, her lips so close to his again that they brushed as she spoke.

Gibbs' eyes narrowed challengingly.

"Lay back and put your knees up," he retorted boldly.

Her mouth dropped open a little; she was almost scandalized.

She closed her eyes and smirked, reaching up to shove her hands into her hair.

Flirt, Fight, Fuck.

_Repeat._

This shit was making her crazy.

Jenny pushed him away from her, reaching down to pull her stocking back up, cursing the run he'd torn in it. She smoothed out her skirt.

"Clean up my pencils," she ordered.

He put his hand on her neck and lowered his mouth to hers for a much more breathtaking, gentle kiss. He smirked at her and pushed her sweaty, mussed hair behind her ear, his eyes glinting smugly.

"Of course, Director," he answered obediently.

She folded her arms and glared at him vibrantly—and against her will, she laughed, tilting her head back.

The son of a bitch wasn't going to stop until he put her in a straight jacket—and if that were the case, she was going to drag him to the madhouse with her.

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><p><em>Something so benign from me<em>  
><em>Construed as cruelty<em>

_Conclusions you come to of me_  
><em>Routinely incorrrect<em>  
><em>I don't know who you're talking to <em>  
><em>with such fucking disrespect<em>

_This shit's making me crazy_  
><em>The way you nullify what's in my head<em>  
><em>You say one thing, do another<em>  
><em>Then argue that's not what you did<br>Your way's making me mental  
>How you filter a skewed interpret<br>I swear you won't be happy  
>Til I'm bound in a straightjacket<em>

_Talking to you's like talking to  
>A sieve that can't hear me<br>_

_You fight me tooth and nail  
>to disavow what's happening<em>

_Your resistance to a mirror  
>I feel screaming from your body<em>

_One day I'll introduce myself  
>and you'll see you've not me <em>

_This shit's making me crazy  
>The way you nullify what's in my head<br>You say one thing, do another  
>Then argue that's not what you did<br>Your way's making me mental  
>How you filter a skewed interpret<br>I swear you won't be happy  
>'Til I'm bound in a straightjacket<em>

_Grand dissonance  
>The strings of my puppet are cute<br>The end of an era  
>Your discrediting's lost my consent<em>

__This shit's making me crazy  
>The way you nullify what's in my head<br>You say one thing, do another  
>Then argue that's not what you did<br>Your way's making me mental  
>How you filter a skewed interpret<br>I swear you won't be happy  
>'Til I'm bound in a straightjacket<em> _

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><p><em>Like I said, painfully unoriginal. How many fics can you read in which they go at it on her desk, in her office? The song is phenomenal, though; listen to it. Hey, though-I did get to work in my favorite scandalous president. <em>

_-Alexandra_


End file.
